Musings of a wet afternoon

June 30, 2005 at 11:24 pm Leave a comment

I know as soon as the door has squeaked shut behind me that I am doomed. The air is warm and swampily wet out here. Gross. Wet enough that I can imagine the mugginess starting to ooze right out of the air any minute.

I could drink this air. Ugh.

I head for the porch swing. That’s a mistake, and I know it. “Should have gone for a stationary chair,” I mutter, and plop down in the swing anyway.

The ceiling fan is going, but you can hardly tell whether it’s circulating air or water.

Nobody can stay awake in a swing in weather like this.

No, I’ll try. I can do it. “Just one story,” I mutter weakly. “I can stay awake through one story.”

I hoist my textbook into my lap and start hunting for the assignment I’m supposed to read. Page 1794. That’s it. It’s called, “Impressions of an Indian Girlhood.” I wonder whether I really need to read the headnotes. They’re only one page. I’ll read them anyway.

“Born Gertrude Simmons on February 22, 1876, Zitkala Sa, or Red Bird, as she also called herself, became…”

The air conditioner unit is blaring from underneath the porch. It’s loud. And monotonous. The slatted floorboards don’t do anything to muffle its drones. It would have been nice if they could have built that thing to sing more quietly.

I pull one foot up under me in the swing and give a little nudge off the floor with the other. The swing starts off with a jerk and launches drunkenly into a figure 8 pattern. I must have pushed off crooked.

I’m on the second page now. Making good progress. The little girl is seven, fatherless, and likes to listen to the ancient legends of her tribe. Gotta remember these details for the exam tomorrow. It’s hard to concentrate, though, with that trickle running down my back.

The whirr-whirr-whirr of the ceiling fan is singing in harmony with that droning air conditioner. If you could call that harmony. If they were going to sing harmony, it would be nice if the fan was a little louder and that stupid unit was a little softer.

Maybe they actually make quieter air units. You never know. They probably cost an arm and a leg.

Where was I? Right. The little Indian girl.

Third page now.

The swing has sobered up. Now it’s doing a mostly-even back-and-forth routine. Very relaxing.

I feel a little bit droopy. That air is so thick and heavy. And wet. And…my leg is going to sleep.

No, can’t do that. Have to keep focused.

Page five.

Too many subordinate clauses in that sentence. Don’t make your reader read a sentence three times.

I’m…sinking too far down in the swing. The pillow is…closer to my head than it was.

A pillow. That’s what I need. Ok, there…better. Now I can concentrate. Yes.

Shoulda had bigger text in this book. I can’t keep track of the words. Keep rearranging themselves so I can’t read. Wiggly. Yeah. Something about a girl eating beads and stringing tepees. Weird. Wait. Stringing beads. Eating meat? While sitting in her tepee, maybe.

I don’t know.

Who’s playing a trumpet? It’s too warm. And wet…to be playing a trumpet.

Be nice if they could stop. Or quit playing that one note.

Who plays their trumpet under the porch, anyway?

Three more pages.

She’s in a boat now, a rocking boat. Or me–I’m in a rocking boat. Who? It’s rocking–yeah–there must be waves. Waves, because I can feel the water. My back is wet.

Damp. Yes. And my shirt. And there’s–

A helicopter? On the ceiling. It’s…quiet for a helicopter. Weird. I’ll figure it out. Later. When this boat stops rocking.

Sock that trombone player.

Only ten pages. Almost done. She is a…

Girl? Right, an Indian girl. Rocking…on the waves…in a tepee. Meeting weeds? Eating beads. Weird.

That note. Get off that note. It’s so wet….yes……

Wet………and…….under the helicopter…

True story. 😉


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Great awakening Wrath of God

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profile.jpgI am working on my M.A. in Religion at Andrews University in Berrien Springs, Michigan. Besides having a big interest in theology, history, ethics, and the deep stuff of life, I am also very fond of Mediterranean food, snow, and the color red.

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